So Jean was to go the next day. Bettina had insisted that he should spend this last day at Longueval, and dine at the house. Jean had refused, alleging that he had much to do the night before his departure.
He arrived in the evening, about half-past ten; he came on foot. Several times on the way he had been inclined to return.
“If I had courage enough,” he said to himself, “I would not see her again. I shall leave to-morrow, and return no more to Souvigny while she is there. My resolution is taken, and taken forever.”
But he continued his way, he would see her again--for the last time.
As soon as he entered the drawing-room, Bettina hastened to him.
“You will go by the road which runs by the wall of the park, and goes through the village?”
“Why so early in the morning? I would have gone out on the terrace to see you pass, and to wish you good-by.”
Bettina detained for a moment Jean’s burning hand in hers. He drew it mournfully away, with an effort.
“I must go and speak to your sister,” said he.
“Directly, she has not seen you, there are a dozen persons round her. Come and sit here a little while, near me.”
He was obliged to seat himself beside her.
“Yes. An hour ago, we received a telegram from my brother-in-law, which has caused us great joy. We did not expect him for a month, but he is coming back in a fortnight. He will embark the day after to-morrow at New York, on board the Labrador. We are going to meet him at Havre. We shall also start the day after to-morrow; we are going to take the children, it will do them a great deal of good to spend a few days at the seaside. How pleased my brother-in-law will be to know you--he knows you already, we have spoken of you in all our letters. I am sure you and Mr. Scott will get on extremely well together, he is so good. How long shall you stay away?”
“Yes, Miss Percival, in the camp of Cercottes.”
“In the middle of the forest of Orleans. I made your godfather explain all about it to me this morning. Of course I am delighted to go to meet my brother-in-law; but at the same time, I am a little sorry to leave here, for I should have gone every morning to pay a little visit to Monsieur l’Abbe. He would have given me news of you. Perhaps, in about ten days, you will write to my sister--a little note of three or four lines--it will not take much of your time--just to tell her how you are, and that you do not forget us.”